Home
by Lawson227
Summary: In which Phryne ruminates on what—and who—truly makes a home. Set sometime before the events of the end of S3.


**AN:** Own absolutely _nothing_ , just playing in the proverbial sandbox. All of this is based on the interactions from the television series rather than the books.

* * *

It was the damnedest thing, Phryne thought. She'd shared her bed with any number of men over the years, but never had she shared her home. Yes, she had lived with René, but that had been a lifetime ago. A different Phryne. A different world. It had been _his_ flat— _his_ space—and never had he let her forget it. That she was a player in his world.

Until the moment she decided, _never again._

That had been the last time she shared living space with a man. Other than Mr. Butler. And, well… he was Mr. Butler. He cared for her home as much as if it were his own which, in a manner of speaking, it was, but he didn't _occupy_ it. He didn't fill the nooks and crannies and all the little private spaces she guarded so zealously.

And certainly, no man other than Mr. Butler had such free rein in her home.

Ironic, then, that the one man with whom she so freely shared her home—her private spaces—her truest self with, was the one with whom she'd never shared her bed.

Would she ever, she wondered. Or would that ruin what they had?

Or…

Well—she wouldn't deny that she'd allowed her mind to wander down that extremely pleasurable path more than once. Or twice. Usually late at night. Or in the bath. Or any time she was in his presence when their lives _weren't_ in danger. He _was_ an absolutely delicious specimen, after all—in more ways than one. And she was merely human.

"What is it?"

She looked up and accepted the crystal tumbler Jack held out to her.

"What?"

"You're smiling."

"I often do." She did so again as she sipped. The whisky's warmth burned a slow, delicious trail down her throat to settle into a comfortable glow in the pit of her stomach.

"And it usually spells a world of trouble." He nudged her knees with his hip as he sank down onto the chaise beside her, the warmth of his body against hers as equally welcome and comfortable as that of the whisky. "Usually for me."

She _tsked_ and unfolded her legs from where they had been tucked beneath her and stretched them out companionably across his thighs.

"You exaggerate, Jack."

He paused, glass halfway to his mouth as one eyebrow rose. "On the contrary, Miss Fisher, I understate." Out of habit, the hand not holding his glass found a comfortable niche on her calf, those long fingers just grazing the back of her knee. A completely unconscious gesture, she knew, one with less overt sexual intent and more sensual acceptance. Yet another sign of just how at ease he felt in her presence. In her space.

And left her profoundly grateful that today's ensemble of choice had her wearing a skirt, rather than trousers. The feel of his warm, lightly calloused skin against hers, save for the smooth silk of her stockings, was undeniably comforting. And undeniably arousing if only for the simple fact that it wasn't intentionally meant as such.

"So—" That expressive brow rose once more as he sipped from his glass, the unspoken question damnably clear. He wouldn't let this go, impossible man. Nor did she really want him to. There was much yet, they hadn't shared about their pasts, but in terms of their life together, they had no real secrets.

Even the things of which they'd yet to speak weren't truly secrets. Which was why she opted, instead, for a slight diversion.

"Play for me?"

His gaze followed the direction of her tilted head toward the baby grand. "Mmm…I think not. Not tonight." His fingers tightened slightly on her calf, unconsciously, she suspected. Which was why she made an effort to keep her answering shiver to a minimum even though it went against her hedonistic principles to deny herself any sort of pleasure.

She could not, however, keep herself from arching and stretching lightly, much like a cat seeking even more comfort. "Why not?"

"I'm entirely too comfortable right here."

Followed by another light brush of his fingertips against the back of her knee, prompting her to sink more fully into the chaise cushions which resulted in his hand sliding incrementally further up her leg, leaving his palm more fully over her knee, his fingertips resting lightly along the back of her thigh.

Still, though, he didn't move. Didn't fluster. Didn't apologize. Didn't do anything other than meet her gaze steadily as he sipped his whisky.

This was a dangerous game they played, she knew, this match of witty repartee and steady glances and light, yet deliberate touches, but one neither seemed particularly compelled to shy away from.

Neither of them likely to give in first, leaving whatever happened to come from mutual accord.

"Pity."

"That I'm too comfortable? Well then, I'll just be taking my leave—" The corners his mouth twitched as he motioned as if to rise.

"Don't you _dare_." Laughing, Phryne applied pressure to his legs, holding him in place. "For I am entirely too comfortable."

"Right, then." He settled himself once more, his hand returning to its place on her leg. "The lady of the manor has spoken and who am I to refuse her wishes?"

Their gazes held for a long, suspended moment before Phryne quietly said, "It's as much your home as mine, Jack. That's what I was thinking earlier. You're as comfortable here as I am—you've made a place for yourself."

He studied her intently, then followed her gaze as it traveled around the room, taking in the latest book he'd been reading, left on the table beside the armchair, the piano where he spent many an evening noodling away as she read or played solitaire and simply sat, eyes closed, humming along. It lit on chess set, paused mid-game, the bar where he'd poured them endless rounds of drinks, the gramophone, with a record brought from his own collection, even to the door leading to the dining room and the kitchen beyond, both rooms where they'd shared many a meal or cuppa, before finally coming to rest on his hand, lying comfortably on her leg.

"It would seem I rather have."

"Moreso than anyone else."

His smile, faint, but reaching all the way to his eyes, indicated he understood precisely what she meant and conveyed a depth of quiet pleasure that struck an answering chord deep within her chest.

"It's an honor, Miss Fisher."

"I rather think it's a pleasure."

"Isn't it always, with you?"

"True." She cocked her head and surveyed him from beneath her lashes. "But for me, this is pleasure both new and unexpected."

His smile deepened, to the one that sent a thrill shooting down her spine, as it had, ever since the first moment she'd laid eyes on it. The smile that spoke of stores of knowledge kept closely guarded, but that he would be most willing to share—when the time was right.

Alas, not yet, however. And well did they both know it.

"It is for me as well, you know."

At her cocked head he elaborated, "A pleasure that was most unexpected."

"But not new?"

"Not new, no." He studied the contents of his glass, as if in the rich gold depths of the whisky he was seeing his past. Or perhaps his future. "But different." He laughed softly. "Very different." He lifted his head and met her gaze. "Yet oddly comfortable."

She straightened, far enough so her impeccably coiffed bangs brushed his forehead and her glass chimed musically against his. She felt, more than heard, his intake of breath, as hers ghosted across his skin.

"May it be ever so, Jack."

His hand moved from her leg to brush a strand of hair from her cheek. "From you, Miss Fisher, I would expect, nor want, anything less."


End file.
